


The Creation of a Man

by OpenEyes



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Branding, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Post-Seine AU, Eventual Valvert, Explicit Sexual Content, Flogging, Historical References, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Canon, Prison, Psychological Trauma, Religious Discussion, whump!Javert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2558348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenEyes/pseuds/OpenEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The untold story of Javert's childhood. Unwanted at birth, demeaned and dismissed until he comes to the attention of the wrong people that forge him into the distant and commanding young presence that strides into Toulon and dogs Valjean's until he is shattered a final time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue- Born in the Bagne

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a story that's been bouncing around in my head and seems to just be getting bigger and bigger. Unbeta'd (takers welcome!). Chapters will vary in length until the story starts to pick up. Comments loved!
> 
> I'm trying to keep this historically accurate, but some discrepancies will probably occur.
> 
> French terminology will have definitions at the end of the chapter.
> 
> WARNING: This fic will feature EXPLICIT and IMPLIED sexual child abuse, EXPLICIT PERIOD TYPICAL VIOLENCE, and period typical religious discussions. If this will cause any triggers, please use extreme caution while reading.

Her screams echoed down the corridor, drowning out the sound of rain against stone. Faces were grim as the other women in the prison counted the many hours that had passed since the labor pains had begun.

So far, it had been a hard labor. Inside the infirmary, the midwife’s arms were coated to the elbow in blood and other fluids as she reached between the gypsy woman’s legs, trying to forcibly pull the babe into the world. She glanced up, noting the shallow breaths and the paleness that belied the normally swarthy complexion. _Maybe it’s just God’s will to not be this time, she thought. We don’t need another of those in the world anyway._ Deciding this birth was a lost cause, she moved to pull her arms from the dying body before her when she finally felt the babe slip and start moving along the birth canal.

Surprised, and her decision now forgotten as the habit of many births took over again, she gently moved her hand away, murmuring encouragements to the new mother and reaching for the swaddling cloth.

“Pousse-tu, fille,” the midwife scolded impatiently. “Push, girl.”

The woman’s eyes fluttered, but she gathered herself with a deep breath and screamed one last time, bearing down against muscles loose from pain and fatigue and the black void offering her solace and peace. And the newborn slid slowly from her womb and into the arms of the waiting midwife, who wrapped him carefully and offered him to the woman to suckle. “A boy,” she announced clearly.

Exhausted and with a small look of disgust, the woman turned her head away, leaving her arms down by her sides.

The midwife felt irritation stir. _Stupid, ungrateful woman,_ she thought. She was not looking to care for the babe herself all night. Striding over to the pile of bedding that had been created for the infant, she set him down and continued out of the room to fetch someone else to play wet nurse, studiously ignoring the newborn’s wails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **"Pousse-tu, fille"** -Push, girl


	2. Gitan Bâtard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about an 8 year time jump from Javert's birth.
> 
> _La Manche, France, 1788_

The boy crouched in the shadow of some crates, stacked haphazardly against the dockside warehouse. His mother was down the street, on the corner, calling for the sailors and the few adventurous merchants to stop at her table. Tarot cards flickered and flashed too quick for the eye to follow between her slim, nimble fingers and dusky ringlets fell from her kerchief to frame a fine-boned face. Known only as Oiseau, her husky voice was less the high song of a sparrow and more the low coo of a mourning dove.

Many of the men spit at her feet and cursed her as they passed. He did not need to look to see it. Everyday was the same. Soon, she would pack up for the night and he would wander back to their small room in the tenement house while she went to drink away what little coin was earned. Maybe, if she found a “friend” for the night, he would be able to beg her for some food in the morning. He would not count on it, but hunger was the only feeling he had ever known. Eventually, she would remember he needed fed.

He could not remember if he had ever wanted to steal a piece of bruised, half-rotten fruit from one of the crates he frequented or a small sou dropped by a heedless stranger, but Oiseau had beaten him with the strip of leather she used for a belt if he even glanced. He ducked his chin to his chest, shoulders hunching defensively at the memory.

No, he did not need to watch her.

Instead, he stared at the small boy, maybe eight years old like himself, climbing uncertainly into a small, modest carriage, followed by a red-faced corpulent merchant. The other boy’s yellow hair looked freshly washed in the setting sun, thin limbs barely covered with rough wool-spun clothing, torn and threadbare against the autumn breeze. 

Pain pricked his memory. The boy reminded him of Luc, and Gabriel, and Michél, but mostly Luc. He wanted to shove the memories away. The last time he saw them. They had been playing hide-and-seek, _his cheeks hurting beneath his dusty hands from holding in giggles. Luc was whispering as he peered inside empty barrels, salt brining crackling beneath his small fingers. “Javert...Javert?...Michél?...Gabriel?...come out. Come out. You can win, I promise.” The smile on his face betrayed the lie._

_He continued his search, peeking under garbage into abandoned crates, poking his face into cracks running through the alleys walls, even chancing a glance in some open windows and coming ever closer to Javert’s hiding spot. Until he appeared to walk right past. Javert had to stifle another giggle that turned into a yelp as water splashed against the top of his head._

_“Gotcha!” Luc yelled, wiping his hands dry against his breeches next to a small puddle from last night’s rain. “Gabriel! Michél! Javert has to count! Come out!”_

_Javert glared, crawling out from behind a parked cart. “Yeah, yeah...,” he paused, looking around. “I don’t think they are coming out. Maybe they really like their hiding spot. Just go hide. I’ll start counting.” Turning away, Javert closed his eyes. “Un...deux...trois...” He could hear the soft suck of Luc’s bare feet in the mud as he began his search._

_Once Javert counted to ten three times. He opened his eyes and cocked his head, listening. He could hear someone whispering and grinned. He was supposed to call out when he started looking for the others, but maybe he could sneak up on Luc and return the favor of puddle-sharing. Sliding his feet to minimize the noise, cold mud oozing between his toes and crawling up his ankles as he slowly sunk into a level of silt, he grimaced and glanced around the corner at the end of the alley. The whispering was louder, but the street was deserted. Odd. Javert frowned, looking around. It was midday._ Someone _should have been wandering the streets._

_He shrugged the tension out of his shoulders, eyes shuttling from shadow to shadow as he determinedly followed the whispers. They were loudest by an empty alley, but there was a barrel resting against a short stone wall. He smirked, the odd silence of the street forgotten as he creeped onto the barrel, ready to spring over the wall and catch all_ three _of his friends. Until he heard what they were discussing and froze._

_“Stupid cigani métis. Last week, ma mère swore we are missing a whole franc after he stopped by! He’s a thief. Un gyppo, just like the rest of them.” The voice finished speaking and spit._

_“Oui! Did you see his face when I threw that piss on him? Stupid! I bet he thought it was just water from the puddle!”_

_“Un clébard.”_

_“Non, un cleb.”_

_“Et un corniaud.”_

_The group beyond the wall broke into peals of laughter. A quick glance over the top of the wall proved that it was his_ friends _that were calling him these names. Tears welling in his eyes, Javert slide down off the barrel and slunk bad down the deserted street towards the tenement house room, feeling as desolate as the streets he wandered._

Blinking back fresh tears and shaking off the memory, Javert’s gaze moved to the merchant, a stranger to the docks. He minced across the cobblestones, wincing as mud sunk up the toe and high-heel of his slippered feet. Stains from the salt spray of the La Manche dotted his silk overcoat. 

He often wondered what happened to the docks’ children that walked away with merchants or the occasional servant of a merchant or minor noble, perhaps. He would never again see them on the docks, but if he tried to run up and ask, they kicked at him, shouting, “Fiche-moi le camp, gitan bâtard!” At their cry, reinforcements would gather and he would have to run into the back alleys and crevices in the city’s structure to avoid angry, grasping hands.

But each time, unease curled in his belly, heavy and sour. Without knowing why, each time, he would offer a small prayer of thanks to God that he was seen as an ugly child.

His musing were interrupted and scattered like the leaves tumbling down the suddenly deserted street as his mother yelled for him. “Javert! Javert! Quickly! Tout de suite! Aide-moi! Help me!”

The panic and urgency in her voice had him leaping to his feet, sprinting along the building line before his eyes registered what was before him.

A troop of police inspectors were striding confidently down the road, brass buttons and badges polished to a high-shine and their royal blue uniforms a startling splash of color to the muted gray-brown of the docks. As he watched, still running toward his mother who was frantically trying to pack up her things so they could run, one inspector yanked a sleeping drunk out of a doorway, the metallic chink of the cuffs audible even from this distance. Another grabbed a shrieking prostitute who hadn’t made it back to her brothel fast enough. One of his fellows came to help as she clawed at his cheeks, leaving bloody streaks on his fair skin.

Javert and Oiseau had had to hide from the police before, but it was always one cop. This...this was something different and his young heart beat desperately, mouth dry with fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Un...deux...trois...** \- One, two, three
> 
> **cigani métis** -Half-breed gypsy
> 
> **ma mère** \- my mom
> 
> **gyppo** \- gypsy, also cheat/swindler
> 
> **clébard/cleb/corniuad** \- Mutt/mongrel
> 
> **Fiche-moi le camp, gitan bâtard** \- Beat it, gypsy bastard
> 
> **Toute de suite! Aide-moi!** -Quickly! Help me!


	3. Le Depot (The Holding Cell) and Tribunal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor Edits may occur later, but I wanted to get this up before bed. It's a much longer chapter, so I hope you enjoy!

Javert twisted his wrists, feeling the skin heat in cuffs cinched too tight as he tried to repress his trembling. They were marching through the streets, heading toward the small, squat building he knew housed the police. His mother walked in front of him, staring defiantly ahead while the others in line had their heads bowed, shoulders hunched against the small stones and splatters of mud other children were throwing as they processed. The police bordering the column occasionally calling for them to stop as their parents gathered, alternately whispering and yelling when they spotted his mother’s olive skin and dark hair.

He had just reached his mother ahead of the police inspectors. She had still been trying to gather her small table, dropping her tarot cards in her haste. He had pulled frantically at her skirts, watching the inspectors rapidly closing in. She slapped his hands away. By the time she had looked up, it was already too late. One had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and sharply wrenched his arms behind him until he yelped and heard the icy cuffs click shut on his wrists. Another had grabbed his mother’s arms and hissed something in her ear. She reared her head back until it met his nose with a sharp _crack_ , followed by a spray of blood, dribbling down her back and the front of his uniform. While he was dazed, she managed to pull away, biting another hand that reached for her, but there were too many and she was quickly subdued.

The squeal of rusty hinges jolted Javert back to his present circumstances as the police herded the many people they had arrested into a small cell, unlocking their cuffs as they filed in. He tried to count how many had been caught in the raid, but it was beyond his small abilities and in the tight confines, the stench of liquor and unwashed bodies rapidly became overpowering. There was one barred opening on the far wall and he slipped around the dull-eyed prisoners to lift his face to the window, breathing deeply.

This proved to be a mistake and he gagged. The smell of piss and shit, rancid and rotting wafted on the air. They must empty the chamberpots right through the bars. Suddenly the rust dotting the iron bars didn’t seem as innocent. He scrambled away and back to Oiseau, trying to keep his breathing shallow.

“Maman,” he whimpered. “What’s going on? I want to go home.”

“Shut up,” she snapped, boxing his ear. “This is your fault. If you had come when I called, we could have escaped them. Leave me be.” She turned to her side, effectively shunning him.

Javert knew this wasn’t fair. He had come when she called, when he saw the police, as fast as his small legs could bring him. He had tried to tell her to leave her things. He had _tried_. He _had_. He backed against the wall, his thin arms wrapping his knees to his chest trying to ease how the air felt heavy and slow in his lungs. He could hear the inspectors laughing and slapping each other on the shoulder as he tried to quiet his thoughts and watched the occasional sunbeam travel across the shoes of his cellmates for the night.

*********************

_BOOM!_

The sound of the cell door slamming shut yanked him out of the fretful sleep he had fallen into. Blinking rapidly to clear the haze from his vision, he sat frozen, arms still wrapped around his knees in the now mostly empty room. The remaining women were pinching their pale cheeks and staring into tiny puddles on the dank floor, scrubbing at smudged cosmetics. Oiseau stood with her back to him, pulling at her dress, tugging out wrinkles, tightening the ties at her waist and baring her shoulders slightly. Removing her kerchief and spitting on it, she turned towards him and smoothed the fly-aways in her hair.

“Javert,” she snapped her fingers impatiently. “Here. Now.”

Cautiously, he did as he was bid, finally placing the sense of wrongness he felt. The men were gone. The older boys were gone. He had easily been the youngest of the people crammed into the dirty area, but now he was the only one who was not a woman. A odd mix of gratefulness and hurt weighed in his chest. Stopping in front of his mother, he held himself rigid while she scrubbed roughly at the mud and grime on his face.

“Pick the dirt from under your fingers,” she instructed, following her own orders as she turned back around, dismissing him. 

Gingerly, he touched his nose and cheeks. They were warm to the touch and from long experience, he knew they would be bright red. He hoped too much skinned hadn’t been removed by her efforts and he slid back to his place on the floor against the wall, dutifully digging under his ragged nails to extract what he could.

*************************

Several hours later, the women done preparing and an officer walked up to the door.

“Line up,” he barked.

They obeyed with some discreet shoving and glares to move to the front of the line. Oiseau hissed. She had ended up third in line, pulling fiercely on Javert’s arm. He could feel the prick of her nails and bruises forming under where the cloth was bunched. He tried to gently tug to loosen her hold, but it merely tightened. She warned him with a look and then they were moving.

The man’s boot slapped loudly against the stone floor, echoes bouncing in the empty corridor as the whisper of the women’s slippers were swallowed and Javert’s bare feet didn’t make a sound at all as they skimmed along the floor at their brisk pace. Occasionally, they would pass an open door and suffer the bored gaze of other police, sitting at desks or talking as they stopped for lunch. Mostly, it was just a different type of cell with long, gray walls until they eventually were led through a set of unassuming double doors and before a tribunal.  
Three men sat raised on a dais, looking down on the troupe as they filed in. Javert kept his eyes on his mud-caked toes, but stole a peek between his lowered lashes when their attention focus on the first woman in line.

“Step forward,” the man on the far right called. He was corpulent, but pale, like he’d never seen sunlight. He reminded Javert of a worm he found once on the edge of a composite heap, layered in rolls and slightly sheeny with sweat. The next man was thin and something about him seemed sharp, like the point on the loose fish hooks littering the dock streets as it slices through the bottom of a foot. Even his eyes were the cobalt-gray of a fall storm, Javert swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat, skipping quickly over the the last man. Old and frail, he shook where he sat, lids drooping, combatting fatigue even as he spilled a glass of water onto his lap while the other men thinned their lips, ignoring him.

The center man read the charges with the soft toll of funeral bells. “You stand before us charged with vagrancy and prostitution. Do you deny these charges?”

The woman stared straight ahead and answered calmly, “Yes, sir. I was merely walking home from a friend’s house. I work as a maid for a small merchant family, but I’ve been given Tuesdays as a day of rest while they are on social outings.” Her dress seemed to uphold her story. It was of modest cut and demure navy in color.

Worm snorted. “Do you have papers stating thus?”

“Yes, sir.” The woman quickly produced the papers in question and handed them to the men. 

They studied the papers briefly and conferred. Then, Worm moved to return the papers, telling her, “You will remain in the holding cell until we can further corroborate your story. Your papers are old, nearly illegible. They may no longer be truthful.”

The woman protested she could easily lose her position as it was already the following day and she had not returned to her employer’s house to work. Her pleas were ignored as another officer entered the room to return her to her cell.

The next woman stepped forward and the charges were read. Javert recognized her. It was the woman who had scratched the faces of the police when she was arrested. 

“You stand before us charged with vagrancy, prostitution, public drunkenness, physical assault on a gardien de la paix, and resisting lawful arrest. Do you deny these charges?”

The woman just snarled and spat on the floor at their feet. This wasn’t the first time she had faced a tribunal administratif. They had no love for each other.

Fish Hooks remained even. “Very well. You are known as Fleur Rose in our records. They indicate this is your third arrest, and with the excessive list of charges, the appropriate sentence is two years in the bagne. You will be transported at the end of the week. Officer.”

And suddenly, it was time for Javert and Oiseau to face their crimes. Again, he began, ““You stand before us charged with vagrancy, prostitution, suspected theft, multiple charges of physical assault against the police, resisting lawful arrest and crimes against persons. Do you deny these charges?”

Javert wanted to speak up and ask how these charges could possibly be against him, but he knew better. Anything that happened here couldn’t be worse than what Oiseau would do if she felt he had destroyed her chance to escape the charges. And indeed, his mother smiled and laughed lightly at the men.

“Messieurs, I am simply an entertainer. No harm is intended with what I do and the people that come to my stand know this. Some live very dreary lives and look for a few moments of hope. And I am very sorry for injuring the officers. They had scared me. I did not understand what was happening. I was working in peace and preparing to return home for the night. I reacted unthinkingly.” She apologized prettily.

“So, you admit to the charges of assault and that you are a charlatan, stealing money under false pretenses.”

Her eyes widened. “No, monsieur. No, not at all. No more than going to the theatre is a false pretense. Just silly stories. I must feed my beloved son somehow, good sirs. His father passed away a few years ago. How is a young widow with few skills to survive?” She pleaded, but Javert knew she lied. She took great pleasure in cursing his miserable, wasted criminal father, stuck in a bagne somewhere for life for a barroom murder. She compared him to his worthless father often enough for him to remember this forever.

“I see,” was the man’s response, notating on a slip of paper. “And of course,” he added, “you have properly registered papers?” He had indeed taken note of their dark hair and smooth, olive complexions, but not to their advantages. “As you know, France requires all of her les bohémiens to be properly registered to restrain their inappropriate lifestyles.”

She made a show of searching her pockets. A bit desperately saying, “I do know. And I’m terribly sorry, messieurs, I must have forgotten them at home yesterday. I was in a terrible rush, hoping for a few more sous to buy my son proper shoes before the weather turns.” She indicated his unshod feet while he bit his lip and turned his head away slightly in shame. Whether at his ragged appearance or her easy lies, he wasn’t sure and allowed his limp bangs to cover his eyes.

“I see,” Fish Hooks responded again, piercing them with his stare before turning to convey with Worm. The old man had finally lost his battle and had fallen into a light doze.

Worm turned back to them with a self-satisfied gleam in his eyes, but Fish Hook passed their sentencing.

“As is dictated by the laws of France and our King for any Tsiganes found to be without properly registered papers, showing that they are an established, contributing member to our society, you and your son, métis or no, will be shaved, flogged and branded as both punishment and reminder of this mandate. For the rest of the charges, it is quite a list for a first arrest.” He paused a moment. “We are willing to remove the possible charges of theft. However, you and your son are sentenced to three years, eight months in the bagne. The officers will obtain your information and carry out the first part of your sentence tonight. You will be transported at the end of the week. Officer.”

His mother’s face transformed, becoming the familiar hard mask as she cursed them and they were led away. Javert’s face was pale. He felt nauseous and faint, and his nightmares had yet to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **gardien de la paix** \- Guardian of the Peace (literal) Lowest ranked police officer  
>  **tribunal administratif** \- Local Criminal Court  
>  **les bohémiens** \- Bohemians (now archaic term used for the Romani people in France), this also included beggars, true vagrants and other "disreputable persons"  
>  **Tsiganes** \- a term used for the Romani people in France  
>  **métis** \- someone of mixed blood
> 
> The shaving, flogging and branding was an actual punishment carried out for not having proper papers if one was a Romani woman in this time period (upon re-reading my notes, location is a ????). Exile could also be part of this punished. Men could/would be sentenced to the galleys for life. I can add a citation here later. (My pillow is really calling me...) 
> 
> Also, "crimes against persons" is a vague charge that they often used against women. I cannot find a proper definition for it, which I suppose makes a kind of sense in a sexist system. Gossip and slander were criminal charges they could bring against women too. Along with public drunkenness which they did not criminalize for men.
> 
> Enough with the history lesson. Comments appreciated! :)


End file.
